The Kushmaker

© Copyright 2013 Kenneth Anesko.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.

Printed in the United States of America.

isbn: 978-1-4669-6431-0 (sc)

isbn: 978-1-4669-6433-4 (hc)

isbn: 978-1-4669-6432-7 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012924243

Trafford rev. 04/16/2013

www.trafford.com

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Contents

Chapter 1      The Grenadeare

Chapter 2      Fanafuti

Chapter 3      The Arrangements

Chapter 4      The Meetings

Chapter 5      The Club

Chapter 6      The Nurses

Chapter 7      Revelations

Chapter 8      Complications

Chapter 9      Lieutenant Saunders

Chapter 10      Sherman’s Moment

Chapter 11      Admiral Crabbet

Chapter 12      The Storm

Chapter 13      Tsunami

Chapter 14      The Final Solution

I thank James Cooper, a good friend and former classmate, who provided me with productive suggestions, critiques, editorial guidance, and overall support during the course of the writing of this book. Without his efforts it might never have been written.

The author

Chapter 1

The Grenadeare

The war in the Pacific was going well. Allied victories came in rapid succession: New Guinea and the Philippines had been secured and most of the smaller, indefensible islands had been abandoned by the enemy.

But for the crew of the U.S.S. Grenadeare, the war might just as well have been over. The ship had been retired from the combat zone after two years of painting, patching, and bolting to keep it afloat. The World War I destroyer had seen its day. New and far more efficient tin cans had been hammered out in shipyards around the country, and now the Grenadeare rested comfortably at a pier in San Diego, gathering barnacles and showing more rust than ever before.

Since returning from combat duty, few formalities prevailed aboard the Grenadeare, and the trend of dress among the crew was so casual that it bordered on the slovenly. Indeed, so casual was the atmosphere that no one on board noticed the solitary figure striding down the wharf toward the ship, clad in spanking new whites, and carrying a fully packed canvas seabag.

The sailor stopped at the strutted gangplank, dropped his shoulder, and let the heavy bag drop to his feet. He studied the ship for a few moments, astonished by its condition and wondering if he was boarding an active ship or the one headed for the mothball fleet. If there had been fog shrouding the pier the ship would have looked ghostly. He hefted the seabag to his shoulder and climbed the walkway, holding onto the guideline with his free hand.

When he reached the quarterdeck, he saw the officer of the day (OD) sleeping in a canvas chair, cap over his eyes, and feet crossed atop a twenty-five pound can of laundry soap. The petty officer of the watch was nearby, sprawled over two massive sacks of laundry, reading the X to Z volume of the Encyclopedia Britannica. The uniform of the day seemed to be whatever the crew had available to wear.

The sailor dropped his seabag beside the napping OD and, standing at attention, cleared his throat loudly. This was intended to rouse the young ensign, but it did not. The petty officer, however, looked up and reached inside one of the sacks, pulling out a foul-smelling tee shirt. After taking careful aim he threw it at the softly snoring officer, hitting him over the ear and sliding his cap to one side. Only then did the ensign wake from his slumber.

Tee shirt dangling over one eye, Ensign Ansen squinted into the bright sunlight, and for a moment saw only the blurred figure of a large man. As the figure gradually came into focus Ansen found himself looking at a smartly dressed, well-groomed first class—he looked at the arm patch—first class something or other. Still not completely awake, he gripped the arms of the chair, pushed himself up, and stood before the new arrival.

Ansen straightened his cap and the tee shirt fell to the deck. The man appeared to be taller than his own five feet ten; broad shouldered and muscular looking. Mid-thirties in age, Ansen guessed, and the smiling face had the leathery look common to men who spend much time in the sun. Mechanically, Ansen placed a hand over his own protruding stomach and tried to pull it in.

Andrew Ansen had been a commodity that all the military services competed for. After finishing in the top quarter of his graduating class at M.I.T., he immediately applied for the Naval Officer Candidate School. He was twenty-three years old and eager for excitement. As an engineer, he had requested and was granted immediate frontline duty.

Now, eighteen months later, the once ambitious ensign had fallen into the same monotonous routine as his shipmates. Life aboard the Grenadeare had ended his grandiose dreams of heroism—for this war, at least—and this was evidenced by the addition of fifteen extra pounds to his once-athletic body.

Sherman, Harold J., the new man said in a clear, distinct voice; and snapped a salute as if he were confronting an admiral. Petty officer, first class; reporting for duty as ordered, sir. Request permission to come aboard.

The ensign looked him over curiously, at the same time observing his own petty officer of the watch and mentally comparing the two. Permission granted, he said and returned the salute. He looked at the rate patch again and suppressed a yawn.

Thank you, sir, Sherman answered. He handed the ensign the manila envelope containing his orders.

Ansen scanned the papers quickly and then put them back into the envelope. You’ll have to pardon me for the moment, sailor, he said, somewhat embarrassed, but I don’t seem to recognize your rate.

Sherman chuckled softly as the ensign stared at the large golden shield with a blue field and bright red K in the center. That’s the Kushmaker rate, sir, he said with a broad smile.

The Kushmaker rate, Ansen repeated. He squinted at the insignia and cleared his throat. Oh, yes. The Kushmaker rate. Yes of course! he said with a nod, then turned to his petty officer. Freddy, show this man to his quarters.

The young sailor, who was paging through his book, put it aside and slid lazily from the nest he had made between the laundry bags. He stared at the patch for a moment, and then motioned the ensign to one side. What the hell is he? he whispered.

What do you mean, what is he? Ansen said. You saw his rate. You know as well as I do what he is. How long have you been in the Navy?"

Six years.

And you have to ask me what he is? For your information, sailor; that man, he said, pointing to Sherman, is a First Class Kushmaker.

A first class what?

Kushmaker! Ansen said impatiently. Kushmaker! Now show him to his quarters!

Where the hell would that be, sir?

Wherever there’s an empty bunk, that’s where! the officer answered. God knows there’s enough of them on this ship.

Yes, sir, Freddy said, I’ll find one.

Good, Ansen said, nodding his head nervously.

He waited until they had disappeared into the passageway, then opened the envelope and reread the orders very carefully, studying every word. Well, he muttered to himself, they sure look official. There it is in black and white: Kushmaker, first class. Signed by the Secretary of the Navy, too! He flicked the papers with his finger. Can’t argue with these. They must have added some new rates while I was overseas. He recorded the event in the logbook, then made a call to the yeoman on duty and turned the orders over to him for processing.

Ansen moved his chair out of the glare of the sun and sat down to relax again. He tilted his cap over his eyes and folded his hands over his stomach, not expecting any more disturbances for the remainder of his watch. Five minutes later the yeoman was back on the quarterdeck, holding the orders, a confused look on his face.

Excuse me, Sir, he said, But what the hell is a Kushmaker?

Ansen raised the visor of his cap and looked at him. Now, what do you think it is? he asked in a surly tone.

I haven’t got the foggiest idea, the yeoman said.

Well, suppose you go and clear away the fog by reading the new book of ratings that came out while we were away.

There ain’t no new book.

There has to be a new book. We get one every year.

I know, the yeoman said, but we never got it. The old one don’t have a Kushmaker in it.

It does show new ratings, doesn’t it?

Sure, a couple.

A couple, Ansen said. If there were some new ones added in the old book, isn’t possible that a Kushmaker could be included in the new one?

The yeoman shrugged. I guess so. If not, maybe it’ll be in the next issue.

You can bet on it, Ansen said firmly. Now go, process those orders.

Yes, sir, the yeoman said, and disappeared into the shack just off the quarterdeck.

People on this ship just won’t believe in progress, Ansen mumbled, then leaned back in the chair, tilted his cap, and closed his eyes.

In the morning, Sherman stood muster with the engineering gang. Ansen, the division officer, was startled and wondered what perverse authority had decided to pick on him. He rationalized, to his partial satisfaction, that Kushmakers were engineers—of a sort; but what he didn’t know was that the petty officer of yesterday’s watch, annoyed with Ansen’s attitude, had deliberately assigned Sherman a bunk in the engineering quarters.

After he dismissed the crew, Ansen went back to his stateroom to try to think the matter through. He had been lying on his bunk for just a few minutes, an arm covering his eyes, when there was a soft rap at the door.

Come on in, Ansen called.

The door opened and Sherman walked in, his cap held in one hand.

What is it? Ansen asked, without looking to see who it was.

I have a request, sir, Sherman said. A request for some supplies I’ll be needing.

Ansen recognized the voice, but resisted the impulse to uncover his eyes. All right, just put it on the table. I’ll look it over later.

Thank you, sir, Sherman said, and the stateroom door closed quietly.

Now what does a Kushmaker do? Ansen asked himself. What could he possibly do? He absentmindedly stroked his chin. And why does he have to do it in my gang? I’ll go over and ask Doug; maybe he’ll know something about it.

He slid from the bunk and was on the way out when the requisition on the table caught his eye. He picked it up and read it quickly: sheet metal, welding equipment, electric motors. Nothing unusual. He signed it and dropped it in his out basket, then went to the wardroom, looking for Doug Parker, the ship’s new medical officer; instead he ran into Lieutenant Commander Esterbriddle, the executive officer.

Hello, there, Ansen. How about a cup of fresh, hot tea? I’ve just finished brewing a pot for myself.

Uh; no thank you, sir. Actually, I was looking for Lieutenant Parker.

Oh? A medical problem, Ensign? The tall, slightly graying officer poured himself a cup from the steaming silver teapot.

As usual, he was meticulously attired in the regulation uniform of the day. Esterbriddle had never been enthusiastic about the Navy, and certainly never expected his reserve unit to be activated so soon after the war began. His only talent in civilian life had been supervising payroll clerks, and he had conceded to himself that he wasn’t even very good at that. Thin, shy with women, and never athletic, his uniform compensated for everything else he lacked. He had used it many times to impress naïve young girls; but then, suddenly, everyone seemed to be in uniform; even women were enlisting. The novelty was gone, and he lost what little aggressiveness he had managed to develop. Once on active duty a series of unaccountable rapid promotions frightened him, and he became even unsure of himself.

Well, Ansen said, I do have a problem, but it’s not medical. It’s the new man in my gang. I really don’t know if he belongs there.

I’m sure you’ll find that he does, Ensign. After all, he was assigned to it, wasn’t he? If he didn’t have the proper rating he wouldn’t be there, would he?

That’s part of the problem, sir, Ansen said as the exec sipped his tea. He was put there because we didn’t know where else to put him. He’s, well, he’s sort of a specialist.

Good, Esterbriddle said. We need those, what does he do?

Ansen fumbled with his cap, stared at the floor, and muttered incoherently.

Come, come, my boy, the exec said in a fatherly tone. It can’t be as bad as all that. Sit down and tell me all about it. After all, if you can’t tell your executive officer, who can you tell?

Ansen sat in a chair opposite his and twirled his cap around his finger nervously. Yesterday, when this new man, Sherman, reported aboard; well, I didn’t know quite where to assign him.

It’s simple enough, Esterbriddle said. You put him where he belongs. You know, the round peg in the round hole. You put him where he belongs.

That’s the point, sir. I don’t know where he belongs. He was assigned a bunk in my gang’s compartment, and that’s the only reason he got where he is! Ansen had been wondering about just that. He could hardly believe his eyes when he saw Sherman standing muster with the rest of his crew. He knew that there were plenty of other bunks available, and now realized that Freddy had deliberately don’t this to him.

Esterbriddle sat back in his chair. I don’t understand, Ensign. You put engineers with engineers; radarmen with radarmen. What’s so difficult about that?

Sir, Ansen said, to be quite honest, I just didn’t recognize his rate.

Esterbriddle got up from the table, walked around it, and put a hand on Ansen’s shoulder. You’re upset, son. You’ve only forgotten what the rate is. None of us can remember them all. Someone had to have requisitioned his… his specialized services. Who was it?

I have no idea, sir.

Ensign, no one reports aboard a ship for no good reason. Someone needs him; otherwise he wouldn’t be here.

Ansen raised an eyebrow. It occurred to him that Esterbriddle, being a reservist, probably didn’t know very much about enlisted men’s ratings either.

Sir, Ansen said, all I know is that his orders were signed by the Secretary of the Navy, and he’s been authorized to develop some kind of sounding device.

Aha! the exec said with enthusiasm, and thumped Ansen on the shoulder. There you have it! No one needed to requisition his rating. It was taken care of by powers higher than we! He again patted Ansen on the shoulder, then went back to his chair and sat down. I know these things can be upsetting, he went on. Forgetfulness can be a psychological reaction in some people. Could it be that, at one time, you had an unpleasant experience with someone of the same rating? Perhaps under battle conditions?

Ansen shut his eyes in frustration, hoping that Esterbriddle would take it as an act of concentration. Damn his psychology, he thought. He might be a good officer, but he’s a fruitcake if I ever saw one.

Esterbriddle stared at him. Does anything come back to you, Ensign?

No, sir.

I see. I assume you checked the book of rates?

Yes, sir; a couple of times.

And you didn’t find this particular rating in it?

No, sir.

Esterbriddle smiled. All right, now suppose you describe his patch. Don’t tell me what he is; just yet, only what his patch looks like. I think I can solve this puzzle for you.

Ansen sighed. Well, sir, it’s a gold shield with a blue field; and it has a large red letter K in the center of it. I’ve never seen one like it. He watched the smug grin disappear from the exec’s face.

Did you read his assignment orders carefully, Ensign? Perhaps there were some specifics that you overlooked.

I don’t think so, Ansen said. They were regular orders; nothing unusual.

The smile returned to Esterbriddle’s face. I’m certain that had you looked at them a bit more carefully, he said, you would have noticed something in the ‘remarks’ section.

Ansen sat up straight. You mean you recognize the rate? You know what it is?

My boy, the exec said, there are few things I don’t have some knowledge of. The Navy is constantly developing new weapons and equipment; and specialists are necessary to properly utilize them. I’m surprised that you weren’t aware of this particular area of expertise.

Ansen breathed a sigh of relief. Sir, you don’t know what a load off my mind this is. I didn’t think anyone knew what a Kushmaker was!

The word caught the exec by surprise, but he composed himself quickly. If the Navy says the man is a Kushmaker, then of course he’s a Kushmaker. Naturally it isn’t a rate that’s well known around these waters, but it’s one of the finest ratings, my boy. Always in demand. Before the war there wasn’t as great a need for their talents as there will be in the future. I think having such a man with us will be an asset to our ship. They are highly trained specialists, my boy; very special specialists. You’ll be seeing a lot more of them, too. Esterbriddle rambled on with an air of confidence that Ansen found a little unusual, but he listened with great relief.

Then I should let him have a free hand, sir?

If anyone should have a free hand, my boy, it’s your new man, Kushmaker Sherman.

Yes sir, Ansen said brightly as he rose from the chair. Yes sir. Thank you, sir. Thank you very much.

As Ansen was leaving the wardroom Esterbriddle added one more pearl of military wisdom: Remember, Ensign; a place for everything, and everything in its place! But when Ansen was gone, the exec rested his chin in his hands and meditated on the brief meeting. What the devil is a Kushmaker? he asked himself aloud. He poured another cup of tea and pondered the question.

During the weeks that followed, Ansen left Sherman to his own devices, only asking, from time to time, how his work was progressing; but he always got an evasive reply. One morning, while he was walking on deck, the Kushmaker stopped him.

Sir, I seem to be having a problem getting the materials I need—especially sheet metal. It’s really slowing down my work.

Ansen had sensed a potential problem and had cut substantial amounts of material from Sherman’s requisition. Even so, he was using almost three times the amount normally needed for repairs to the entire ship. I did the best I could, he said. You’ve used a year’s supply already. What’s all this sheet metal for, anyway?

You know, sir, Sherman said, that I’m privileged to work under my own conditions. My orders say so. But, he whispered, I can tell you that it’s a dynamic new concept in depth equipment.

Oh? Ansen whispered back. A new piece of sonar gear, maybe? This time, he hoped, he would get a specific answer.

Sherman glanced over his shoulder. You know how it is with these things, sir, he said. I can’t really say much.

Oh, I know; I know that. Ansen said, but can’t you at least give me some idea of what I’m spending all that money for?

Depth equipment, sir, Sherman answered with an air of superiority. That’s all I can say right now. You understand the need for security, sir.

Yes; yes I do, Ansen said, but you’ll have to try to keep your requisitions to a reasonable level.

I’ll do my best, sir. Sherman stated to walk away, but stopped and turned back as a thought crossed his mind. Sir, he said in a whisper, I just thought of something else I’m going to need in a few weeks.

What’s that, Sherman?

Small pulleys. I’m going to need some of those. You see, I’m building a scale model first; and I want to be sure it works right before I start on the big one.

Ansen looked puzzled. You’re building a model? Why can’t you just make the full sized… thing?"

Sherman smiled. We don’t do things that way, sir. First the test, then comes the big baby.

Ansen nodded, as though he knew what the conversation was all about. I think I see what you mean, Sherman. All right, order the pulleys. I’ll sign the requisition.

Thank you, sir, Sherman said with a wide grin. It’ll be a grand day at the unveiling, when everything’s ready.

Ansen stared at the man. I’m sure we’ll all be impressed, Sherman.

"Thank you, sir. You won’t be disappointed. I’m the best Kushmaker in the Navy; and when the time comes, I’ll

prove it."

I’m sure you will, Sherman. I’m sure you will, Ansen mumbled, as the sailor turned away.

Captain Hewett sat in his stateroom pondering the message he had just received from ComFleet. The telegram lay on his desk, and he stared at it, lost in thought. Then, impulsively, he opened a drawer and took out a bottle of scotch.

Of all the damned luck, he said to himself. He poured a small amount from the bottle and swallowed it in one gulp. He had been expecting a better assignment than this, and he was visibly angry. It has to be Crabbet. He’s the one responsible for this; I’m certain of it! He’s still trying to get even with me! He poured another drink, and it disappeared as quickly as the first.

He spread a chart of the South Pacific over the desk and after a good deal of searching found what he was looking for: a small dot that represented an island in the Ecille archipelago. A closer look with a magnifying glass showed the dot to be part of an atoll: a string of tiny coral islands arranged in a broad, elliptical pattern. He didn’t need the glass, however, to see that the islands were in the middle of nowhere. By quick calculation he estimated that they were roughly six hundred miles from the Fiji Islands, sailing south by southwest; and New Caledonia was about seven hundred miles beyond that. On the other side, the nearest land was Samoa, another seven hundred miles to the east.

Fanafuti, he murmured, and shook his head. Of all the backwater places to be assigned! He slapped the desk and stood up. He’s trying to bury me—put me out to pasture. Trying to keep me from getting another stripe! He knew I wanted to get back into the war; but he’s sending me to Fanafuti, that dirty… .

The buzz of the intercom interrupted his description of Admiral Crabbet, a friend and nemesis for the past twenty years. He stood up and pressed the lever.

Yes, what is it? He removed his finger and the lever swung back.

Uh, it’s me, sir, a weak voice crackled through the static of the squawk box.

Who the hell is ‘me’?

Esterbriddle, sir.

Oh, you. The captain snarled. What do you want?

"If you have a few minutes, sir, I’d like to talk to you about a certain matter that has just come to my attention.

Can’t you handle it yourself?

I’m afraid not, sir. It concerns a new man who recently came aboard.

Captain Hewett sighed and lowered his head. Of all the executive officers in the Navy, I have to get this idiot! I’ll bet Crabbet had something to do with that too, he muttered. He pressed the lever again. All right, come on over; but it had better be important!

Hewett sat down again and began to wonder about the direction of his career, and where he would fit in after the assignment at Fanafuti was finished. At forty two, he was a typical old sea dog; a forceful, confident leader whose skill and ability to command was seldom questioned. If he had a fault, it was an inflated ego, but that was hardly uncommon in his profession. He was not a handsome man, but he was proud of the fact that, unlike most of his contemporaries who had come into the navy from the merchant service, no track record of dissipation showed on his aging face. He was one of those rare individuals who, despite frequent drinking bouts and late hours, was never out of condition.

Again he looked at the TWIX, and winced. At the conclusion of hostilities, his ship was to be turned over to the island administration for use as a shuttle to New Caledonia. His ship. It didn’t make any sense, scuttling a perfectly good vessel. Sure, it was old and battle weary, but it still had a few good years left. All the time they had been dry-docked in San Diego he had been apprehensive, watching the armament disappear, but now it began to make sense to him. Crabbet had been setting him up!

The torpedo tubes were the first to go; then the 20 and 40 mm antiaircraft batteries. The depth charge racks on the fantail and those along the port and starboard sides were removed; and last to go were the five inch gun mounts. The crew, once numbering almost three hundred, was reduced to less than seventy-five men. His ship no longer looked like a destroyer; it just looked sick.

Where was all of this going to leave him, he wondered. He wanted to see the end of the war in command of a combat ship, but his requests for transfer had all been rejected. He was certain that Crabbet was responsible for that. They had been friends and adversaries all the way back to the maritime years, always playing one-upmanship on each other with no one the permanent winner—until now! It was no fault of his that Crabbet had a university degree and he didn’t; that Crabbet had been scooped up at once, while he had to scramble for a commission; but he finally got it. He wasn’t able to go to the Academy because he lacked the basic requirements for admission, but years of study and hard work had earned him a master’s ticket and the command of a merchant vessel. He was proud of that, and even more proud of his naval combat record.

But now, with all his experience, the assignment at Fanafuti—it gnawed at his insides. It was spite, pure, and simple, he reasoned. Crabbet was always jealous of him because he was a better navigator and overall seaman than Crabbet was. Try as he might, however, he couldn’t understand what was struck in the admiral’s craw this time; what would make him put an able combat officer out to pasture in the middle of the war… .

As he walked toward the captain’s cabin, Lieutenant Commander Esterbriddle had no more of a solution than he did when he spoke to Ansen. He wasn’t able to find out what a Kushmaker was. He had a man on board that he couldn’t identify and it frightened him because he had committed himself to the ensign. He had read Sherman’s orders carefully and so far as he could determine they were genuine.

He rapped on the captain’s door and waited for a response. The captain, he knew, liked to take his time answering—liked to pretend that he was busy, even on the stripped-down ship he commanded. The exec knocked again and heard a muffled voice shouting something through the closed door. Esterbriddle took it as an invitation to enter.

You ninny! the captain shouted. Close that damned door! He was standing in the middle of the cabin, completely naked. Who gave you permission to come in here? He reached for a robe and slipped it on. A man can’t even take a damned shower without someone interrupting him!

I thought I heard you tell me to come in," the exec said.

I told you to stay out and come back later. I changed my mind about talking to you; I wanted to take a shower first. Do you mind? How would it have looked if one of the crew was out there when you barged in? he asked, gesturing at the now closed door. He turned away from Esterbriddle, tightening the cord of his robe. Why do I always have to get the losers? he growled, waving his hands in the air. He dropped into a chair near the far bulkhead but jumped to his feet again as he felt the jab of a broken spring. Wow, that smarts! he shouted as he rubbed his rump. I told Chief Starky to fix that damned thing. What do I find when I come back from shore leave? he went on without looking at Esterbriddle, Incompetence. That’s what I find. I have a chair that bites me, and no one could care less about it. He put a cushion on the chair and sat down carefully. Ah, he sighed, that’s much better. Now, what sort of stupid problem do you have this time?

Well, sir, the exec said meekly, we have a man on board that seems to be causing a bit of confusion.

Confusion? the captain broke in quickly. What man causes confusion aboard my ship?

Esterbriddle fumbled with his cap and opened his mouth to